A Case of You
by imanut
Summary: Drabble ii- Nothing: Alfred and Arthur lying together in the moonlight.
1. Hard Times

_I: Hard Times_

by imanut

**AN**_: Well, this is a day of firsts for me. This is the first time I've written in (perhaps?) nearly a year. And this is my first time writing Hetalia! I'm rather excited… I had found the series surfing through an aarinfantasy gallery and found an adorable pic of England riding on a unicorn whilst being surrounded by a fairy, a pixie(?) and a gnome while US, Hong Kong, Sealand, and...Prussia? Either way, England look way too cute for his own good and I inevitably fell in love. Then, I spent hours watching the anime on youtube. But it wouldn't let me watch episodes 25 and 26! I was so heartbroken!!_

_Anywho, this was actually supposed to be more focused on Alfred than Arthur, but whatever. I'm hoping to include a bunch of other unrelated (possibly more light-hearted) one-shots and drabbles, keyword being "hoping." But I've been inspired by reading all the beautiful and fantastic USxUK fics out there (and because I'm such a history nerd), so it's more than likely that I will. _

_**Semi-important-ish facts: **I've read a couple fics where Alfred has a split personality due to the civil war. I, too, sort of followed that pattern, but I'm not too certain that it's very obvious. The only true clue he may be experiencing some mental difficulty is his migraine. History discloses that the English would hire French cooks, hence Francis's presence. There is some slight **FrUK**_**, **_though, one can pass it off as brotherly love if one wants to. It's supposed to be pre-USxUK anyhow...Um...I think that's it. Sooo..._

_Let the show begin!!_

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His cerulean eyes were dulled with pain and his left, black-gloved hand was placed at his forehead, his thumb and forefinger pressing against his temples. His right hand clenched tightly to an envelope addressed to his one-time brother. Alfred did not really want to be here, not when horrible things were escalating back home. But his boss would hear none of it and continued to reiterate how pressing it was that Arthur received the parcel. He just did not understand. Was it really necessary for him to leave on this journey? He had a war to put an end to! Why did he have to see…_him?_

A sharp pain suddenly shot through the blonde man's skull and he nearly crumbled to the cobblestone street. Alfred gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand up straight, his thumb and forefinger pressing even harder against his temples. There was no way he would _ever_ allow _England_ see him weak like that. With warbling knees, the American forced himself onward.

He stumbled through a forest of factories, the smokestacks emptying dark clouds that nearly blacked out the sky. It was almost foreboding, the American thought. But as minutes passed (minutes that lasted far longer than any minute should), the factories and blackened buildings grew less and less until he finally came across a meadow with an old, large Tudor-style house out in the distance. Alfred almost (almost, mind you) sighed in relief.

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Arthur was reclining on a sofa in front an empty fireplace and bundled in a quilt, coughing nigh violently into the handkerchief in his palm. A periodical, aged by several years, lay haphazardly on the floor, turned to a chapter of _Hard Times_ by Charles Dickens. The industrial revolution had been an incredible thing, but it was certainly taking its toll on the lower classes and in turn, on him.

Once the coughing had ceased, he felt the cloth in his hand was damp. The bundled nation gazed down at his hand and saw his handkerchief was coated in black splatters. Thick, dark brows furrowed in worry. He was so engrossed in said worry that he did not notice the presence of one Frenchman behind him until a hand manifested in his vision and seized the soiled cloth, startling the Briton.

"_Angleterre,_ can you not take care of yourself for even a second without me? I leave you alone for a tiny moment to make supper, only to return and discover that you are hacking up an entire lung," chided Francis.

England rolled his eyes and muttered, "Sod off, you wino bastard. I didn't ask for a nursemaid. " France leaned over to dab a few droplets of black that clung in earnest to the tiny blonde's bottom lip. He inverted the damp handkerchief and pocketed it and pulled a clean, lacy one from his sleeve. Francis handed it to Arthur who snatched it silently, but graciously.

"_Non,_ perhaps not, but someone _had_ to come make sure you didn't kill yourself. God knows that trash you cook yourself would only aid in your demise."

"Out!"

"Hahaha! Oh, _Angleterre!_ Can you not take a joke? I am kidding! Why, I am quite certain your iron stomach would be able to handle whatever putrid concoction you may consume." Arthur growled, but before he had a chance to reply there was a knock at the front door. When he had risen halfway from his couch-cocoon, Francis pushed him back down. "Ah, ah, ah…You just stay here while I go get the door," the Frenchman proclaimed.

The taller blonde nation almost made his way out the room when he caught Arthur's voice, soft, gentle and almost embarrassed. He shut the door to the study and allowed a smirk to paint his lips.

"You are most welcome, _mon petit Angleterre_."

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"What the hell are you doing here?" were the first words Alfred had spoken when he saw France standing in England's doorway. The fingers pressing against his temples fell away and his hand dropped to his side.

"I could ask you the same question. Come in," the Frenchman replied as he stepped aside to allow the American passage into the foyer.

"I've come to see England."

"Obviously. Come—I shall take you to him." Francis led him through the house to Arthur.

"So, why are you here?" Alfred asked again. "I thought the two of you didn't get along or somthin' like that."

France chuckled, "Ha, yes, yes! Be that as it may, it is something of a tradition that I come cook supper for him at least once a month. Can't allow our dear _Angleterre_ to die from lack of proper nourishment. Where would the fun in that be?"

When they were just outside the door, he rounded on the younger blonde and met America's blue eyes with his own, scrutinizing him and then swung open the door almost violently.

"You have a visitor, _mon chere!_" he called into the room. Arthur opened his eyes and slowly lifted his head off the arm of the sofa to look over at the speaker. When his fevered, emerald eyes landed on Alfred, he sat up straight and maneuvered his feet to the floor. He tried to stand to greet them, but France had moved to push him back into the seat.

"Ah, ah, ah," Francis scolded, "no need to get up. I imagine that you'll need to conserve all the strength you have for this…spontaneous meeting." The Frenchman grinned devilishly at Alfred (who had successfully managed to make his way to stand next to the opposite side of the sofa without crumpling in a heap on the floor) as he ruffled England's hair, who huffed agitatedly in response, and fled out the door before the Briton could retaliate.

Now, it was just Alfred and Arthur alone in the study.

There was such a terrible tension in the air. Arthur hadn't seen his former colony since the War of 1812. He looked the American up and down, taking in his entire appearance. His eyebrows creased in slight worry. He seemed to be struggling to stand up straight and his eyes were dull and narrowed with pain from behind his glasses. Why was Alfred wearing spectacles? Oh…wait. The war must have been placing a strain on his eyes. Civil wars were known to cause quite a powerful migraine. Oh… _Oh! He must be in terrible pain and here I am, being rude!_ The smaller blonde immediately patted the cushion beside him.

"Forgive me. Please, have a seat." Alfred did so.

"Ah…Thanks. It's um…been a while, old man," America muttered. He glanced around the room whilst trying to evade the glaring intensity of the gaslights. Arthur always did have a beautiful home…

"It has…hasn't it? Tell me—how-how have you been?" Arthur nearly slapped himself. What a stupid question! He had been keeping up with the events and it was not much of a secret that Arthur had been supporting the Confederates. "Ne-nevermind. What brings you here?"

"My boss wanted me to give you this," he said, presenting the envelope to Arthur. The Briton grabbed it tentatively. He broke the wax seal on the back and carefully pulled out the message and read the heading:

_The Emancipation Proclamation_

As Arthur read on, the worry he held prior fled and his brows re-furrowed with anger, concern, and slight humiliation. _Well, there's only one thing left for me to do, then._

England turned to America, "Would you please fetch me a book, an envelope, a couple sheets of paper, an ink well, and a pen from my desk? It appears I need to write a certain Mr. Jefferson Davis."

-------

Alfred sat at the opposite side of the couch, waiting while his former brother wrote diligently to the President of the Confederacy. After Arthur had sent him to retrieve the needed items, it had dawned on the American why Mr. Lincoln had sent him there. He knew England had been trading with the South. He also knew that England (and France) had abolished slavery quite a while ago. So, deduced Alfred, Lincoln was planning on cutting the Confederacy's source of ammunition by revealing a crucial piece of information. But knowing this did not make the American any happier. He still did not understand why Lincoln made him the messenger. Why not someone else whose job was to deliver?

The questions did nothing to ease the migraine that had ravaged his skull since the secession. Alfred finally propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa and brought his hand back to his temples to ease the pain. Aaaah…much better (though not by too much).

"There." Alfred watched as Arthur blew on the letter, folded it, and placed it inside the awaiting envelope. "Now, all I need to do is seal it," Arthur said as he looked around for his seal. After realizing he did not ask for it, the Briton glanced consideringly towards the American before decided against asking him and moved the book he had used to write upon to the floor and unwrapped the quilt from around his body to stand. After a couple of tries, He finally managed to stand and swayed his way to his desk to search for his wax and seal.

"I could have done that! I'm no invalid!" Alfred said sounding slightly indignant. He looked down and picked up the discarded periodical and flipped through the pages.

"Oh, quiet. I didn't say you were, you twat. Nor was I implying it," Arthur growled after lighting a candle. He picked up a stick of red wax and ran in through the dancing flame, watching it drip onto the flap of the envelope before pressing the seal into the cooling wax. As he was making his way back to the sofa, he was assaulted by another savage coughing fit. The smaller nation frantically dug through the pockets of house coat for the handkerchief Francis had given him earlier, desperately wanting to hide what he had been coughing up from America. After finally finding it, he placed the cloth over his mouth. The coughs sounded a little better than before, but still wet and nasty.

Alfred lifted head from his hand to look at Arthur a little too quickly, for he flinched and brought both palms to squeeze his temples. He raised his eyes in concern. Part of him wanted to ensure the other nation was alright, but something whispered, _"No. You're not like that anymore. It would only make things awkward." _However, he continued to watch him "just in case." He was the hero, after all. England's coughs ceased and he re-pocketed the handkerchief before continuing his way to sit in his former nest on the sofa. He turned towards Alfred and began to present the sealed letter before lowering his hand (and letter) to his lap.

"No," Arthur muttered, "I believe this will be something I shall send myself. Now, you go and –oh, come here. Can't you take care of yourself?" He leaned up to replace Alfred's palms with his own, adding a much more adequate pressure than his former charge.

America studied England's face. His cheeks were flushed a rich, rosy color, though whether it was due to embarrassment or fever he was unsure. It was then, while Arthur was leaning in oh-so-closely, that Alfred saw something slowly dribbling down the former's chin. "The hell...? What's that on your chin? Did you cough that up or something? That's not blood is it?"

"Would you shut up long enough for me to get in a word? It's not blood. It's residue from the industrial revolution."

"But, your economy's fine. Why would you be sick?"

"Ugh…are you serious? Don't sit there and tell me you haven't noticed the plethora of pipes and towers spewing all that smoke. Aside from that, there is also the plight of the lower classes. My employer seems to have disregarded their importance." Alfred was about to argue that he had been going through an industrial revolution, too, but decided against it. He figured it would be unwise to do so, considering the health of both nations.

Instead, the American nodded his understanding and stood up, breaking (physical) contact with England. "I need to get back to things at home." He leaned down and grabbed the letter still lying in Arthur's lap and gave the cockiest grin he could muster. "I'll just go ahead and take this with me so you won't have to bother with it." And with that, Alfred made his way out of the study, calling out over his shoulder, "Take care, ya ol' geezer!" by way of saying thank you.

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_Fin_

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_I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!! The conversation was stiff and awkward and the speakers were probably OOC. But, as I mentioned above, it's been a while since I've last written. Alrighty, lay it on me and tell me what y'all thought! But please be gentle! After all, I am an APH virgin…_


	2. The Denial Twist

_ii. The Denial Twist_

by imanut

**AN**_: Thank you for the kind reviews!! Y'all definitely made my first time…memorable! (haha!) Now, I know Arthur is OOC…but that is with purpose. Think of him as a proud parent, showing off his talented child or…something. As for Alfred's OOC-ness, well, how would you react if you were not-jealous?_

_**Semi-important-ish facts: **__I love Charlie Chaplin. He is, without a doubt, my favorite classic actor. This oneshot takes place at the beginning of his second tour with the Fred Karno Repertoire Company. _

_Anyway, here's the second one-shot._

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_America, October 1912_

At first, he thought his glasses were smudged and that he was seeing things that weren't there. So Alfred removed them from his face, puffed hot air onto the lenses, and diligently rubbed away the condensation with his handkerchief. But no, no…apparently that did nothing to help. If anything, it only made the image clearer. His brow furrowed.

It was definitely Arthur, alright. And he was linking arms with a man—an _attractive_ man with dark hair and an enticing smile—who was talking animatedly and gesturing comically, earning fond smiles and bouts of laughter from the usually grouchy Briton.

(He had once been on the receiving end of such smiles, but that was when he was a child. And he didn't miss those smiles one bit! Nope, not at all!!)

Alfred stood and watched them for a moment. Suddenly, they stopped walking. The dark-haired man must have said something particularly funny because Arthur was nigh bent over, a hand placed over his mouth in an attempt to hold back the laughter. He saw the dark haired man smile fondly at Arthur, obviously pleased that he could encourage such joy.

(He pointedly ignored the pang of…whatever it was that shot through his chest. It certainly wasn't jealousy, of that he was _most_ certain.)

Before he could make even a move towards escape from this (very non-envy inducing) scene, England caught sight of him and ushered his companion (More like arm-candy, he thought very non-bitterly.) towards America, calling his name. He broke out into a (non-fake) smile.

"Hey, old man!" he greeted. Arthur either didn't hear the jab at his age, or allowed it to slide this one time. He still had a bright smile on his face as he patted the shoulder of the dark-haired stranger (that he was NOT jealous of).

"Alfred! I was hoping we'd find you! This is Charlie Chaplin," he beamed. "Charlie, this is Alfred Jones."

"Ah! So, this is the infamous Alfred F. Jones! It's quite a pleasure to finally meet you. Arthur has spoken rather highly of you," said Mr. Chaplin, eliciting a minor blush from the older blonde.

"Eh?! Really?" Alfred certainly hadn't been expecting that (and he certainly wasn't flattered). Before Charlie could respond, Arthur interjected.

"Charlie is a phenomenal comedic actor. I thought it would prove fruitful for the two of you to meet. So, if you would—" Alfred temporarily zoned out, too busy scrutinizing this "phenomenal comedic actor" to listen.

A silence settled among the trio. And as the silence wore on, the smile on Arthur's face became less genuine and his hefty, right eyebrow began to twitch before Alfred finally found it in himself to nod, not sure what he was agreeing to. (Probably giving them my blessing, he thought (non-) bitterly.)

"Excellent!" cried Charlie, rubbing his hands together and breaking the arm-link with Arthur (and no, Alfred _certainly_ didn't internally jump with glee at the loss of their contact). "Ah, I'm afraid 'tis time for me to rejoin my troupe back at the boarding house. I need to unpack." He turned to Arthur, "Mr. Kirkland, do be safe on your way back home. Mr. Jones, again, it was a pleasure to meet you and thank you, so much." And with that, he left the two nations standing in the middle of a busy, unattentive square.

"He will do great things. I just know it," England whispered fondly as he watched his friend walk away.

"So, are you two doin' it?" Alfred asked. He was answered with sputtering.

"Must you be so vulgar? And no, we aren't! What would put such a ridiculous idea into that pea-sized head of yours?" Arthur all but shouted.

"Oh, I dunno, maybe the way you were fawning over 'im like a schoolgirl," America shot back.

"I most certainly was _not_ fawning over him!" England cried.

"You so _were!_ And why wouldn't you? He's good-looking and charming and funny—"

"My God…You're jealous," Arthur whispered and a slightly smug grin began to twist his mouth.

"A-am not!" Alfred denied (Because really, what did someone as awesome as him have to be jealous of?).

"You _are!_ ("Am not!") It explains why you weren't your normal, talkative, idiotic hick self."

Alfred glowered and changed the subject, terribly aware that he wasn't going to win this one, "Well, if he's gonna do 'great things,' then why'd you introduce him to _me?_"

"He was in this country five months ago and loved it. Besides, you can provide him with opportunities that I cannot. Were you not listening? " Arthur looked at the American pointedly and understanding finally dawned on the younger.

"_So, if you would, please be a kind friend to him and show him the ropes?"_

He felt like an ass.

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_Fin_

_----------_

_Well, I think I over did the denial part. And somewhere, while writing, I lost what it was I wanted to say…so I winged it! :D Haha _


	3. There's Nothing Like a Country Boy

_Drabble i: There's Nothing Like a Country Boy_

_Word count: 131_

by imanut

**AN**_: Oh, I'm excited at how many people have this on alert! Thank you so much!!_

_**Semi-important-ish facts: **__None~!_

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"It's an abomination to the English language."

He didn't really mean it.

In all honesty, Arthur liked it—Alfred's southern drawl. It rarely made itself known in the American's speech, usually only appearing when he was either unbearably exhausted or extremely excited. Oh sure, his grammar deteriorated (he would say "y'all" instead of "you guys" and "ain't" instead of "isn't"), but that's not what drew Arthur in; it was the lilt his speech held. Whilst speaking, Alfred would grow lazy and draw out his vowels (it made his heart hammer and his knees knock violently). With his dialect, Alfred was more polite and hospitable—it saddened the Briton that the American tried so hard to hide it, as though he were ashamed. Damn the stereotyping.

"You love it."

Yes, he did.

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_fin_

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_I really like this one. I, myself, am a Southerner, hailing from The-Middle-of-Nowhere, Arkansas and frequently bask in the glory that is the Southern dialect. I absolutely can't stand it when people try to mimic it—it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to me—and even more so when we're portrayed as inbred country-bumpkins who have never heard of shoes. Ah…I'd best stop myself before I get on a tangent!! Sorry, sorry! I'm biased..._

_So, what do y'all think?_


	4. Nothing

_Drabble ii: Nothing_

_Word count: 86_

by imanut

**AN**_: Haha! Thank you again for such wonderful feedback! Y'all have definitely brought me lots of joy. _

_I meant to update sooner than this, but several things have hindered me from doing so. Plus, I've recently fallen in love with uke!Prussia and have begun hunting all fics surrounding him. Haha I'm afraid to read more of them, though—I don't want to read them all at once! Anyway, getting back on track… _

_**Semi-important-ish facts: **__None. Just pointless fluff._

_Enjoy~!_

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It was nice just lying there on his stomach in the middle of the bed and bathing in moonlight, gazing into illuminated cerulean eyes. There was no sound but the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and their steady breathing. At times like these, he felt the most calm, the most loved. A broad hand carded through his sandy hair and he leaned into the younger's touch. Soft lips grazed his forehead and a blush spread across his nose. Nothing could ruin this moment.

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_Fin_

_----_

_Ah! I love this one, too! Lately, I had read some rather angsty fics that put me in a really melancholic mood. So, to cheer myself up, I decided to write a drabble. I definitely didn't expect it to turn out like this, but I definitely love it!_

_What do y'all think?_

_Oh!! While I'm thinking about it, I'm not opposed to writing for prompts. If there's something you want to read in particular, feel free to let me know!_


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